Police cruisers fanned out. Helicopters lifted. Radios crackled with warnings instructing civilians to stay inside and keep distance. Quietly, behind closed doors, a harder conversation took place—if Brutus posed a threat, lethal force would be considered.
Aaron heard that word and felt it land in his chest like a physical blow.
“He’s not aggressive,” he argued hoarsely. “He’s locked onto something. He always is. You don’t put him down for following instinct.”
“Instinct doesn’t matter if someone gets hurt,” the reply came back.
Meanwhile, Brutus ran.
He crossed streets without breaking stride, dodged stalled traffic with impossible agility, and followed a trail that grew clearer with every block—an old scent, faint but unmistakable, woven with memory and loyalty. He slowed only when the concrete gave way to cracked pathways and bare winter trees.
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